Good at something

The young prince was hesitant and unsure of himself. The approaching dawn, and the battle it was sure to bring, weighed on him. It felt surreal. He dumbly stared at his armor and sword.

“How are you … at this?” He awkwardly asked the old soldier next to him. The warrior was quiet, methodically going through and checking his equipment. The silence pressed on the prince more than the imminent violence.

“This is what I do.”

“Do you mean, this is what you do best?”

This made the soldier pause. He looked up and stared off for a moment.

“Can’t say. Haven’t done much else.”

An old guitar

He placed the guitar case on the bed and slowly wiped the dust away with his hands. The case was old and worn, its leather worn thin and smooth with the age, much like his hands. The clasps, though starting to accumulate some rust, gave with a snap and the top sprung up a bit. Here, the man paused. The lips of the case cracked, it seemed to breathe out a bit of the old air, the smell of late night tobacco and too many dawns.

The hinges creaked. The inside of the case fared better than its outer shell, but not by much. The velvet was worn in many spots. Corners were coming up, curling away from the frame. Some time long ago, a lit cigarette fell into the case and its burning ash left holes in the fabric. Tears welled up in the man’s eyes. He smiled but his lips trembled. His fingertips gingerly traced the old guitar and its taut steel strings. It was too much to actually lift the instrument. The faintest touch to its body was electrifying. He felt his muscles tense up, and heard the phantom crackle of the amplifier in his ears.

“I miss those days, too,” Helen said, smiling. She wrapped her hands around his arm and kissed him on the cheek. The sunbeams came in through the windows and lapped at her white hair.

“Yeah,” he answered. For a few moments he was still lost in the mad memories of sleepless nights and crowds. “I’m lucky to have gotten out with you, and not something worse,” he chuckled.